The Soldier's Dark Secret

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Oh. So you plan to call on him there?’

  ‘I plan to attend the dinner party.’

  ‘But you— But the last time you attended a dinner...’

  ‘I almost fainted, I almost spilled my accounts, then the next day I blew up at my brother and his wife and fled to London,’ Jack said drily. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

  But he had managed to mention it without either anger or embarrassment, Celeste noted.

  ‘It was horrible bad luck,’ Jack continued, ‘the combination of the vegetable stew and the venison at Charlie’s table. I was coping. And when I was in London I decided that I wanted to see just how well I could cope.’

  ‘So it is another test?’ Celeste pressed his hand. ‘I think that is very brave. And a good thing. And I am very, very grateful too, but I don’t want you to do this for me, if you think...’

  ‘I’m doing it as much for myself as for you, Celeste. And for Finlay too. My army friend, the Scotsman I told you about. He has other business to attend to, and was eager to find someone to replace him.’

  Celeste frowned. ‘So there will be— Will there be other soldiers there?’ Jack nodded. She eyed him suspiciously. ‘This person you have to speak to about the secret file, he must be very important?’ Another nod. It couldn’t be! ‘Jack, please, please don’t tell me that you are going to dinner with the Duke of Wellington.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Celeste said, ‘I could not...’

  ‘I’m not,’ Jack said, ‘but we are.’

  Celeste jumped to her feet. ‘Non!’ She lapsed into a stream of incoherent French. ‘No, Jack. You cannot mean it. Wellington! And this dinner— Will all the guests be soldiers?’

  ‘Officers and their wives.’

  ‘Jack, these soldiers—officers—will they be men who fought with you at Waterloo? The very battle which caused your—your...’

  ‘My condition, for want of a better word,’ Jack said shortly. ‘My condition,’ he repeated firmly. ‘It wasn’t at Waterloo that I— It has nothing to do with Waterloo.’

  Celeste’s jaw dropped. ‘But I thought— Your wounds, your arm...’

  ‘Those injuries have nothing to do with it. The event which—the circumstances which—that happened two years ago.’

  ‘Two years ago. But how could you— You were still in the army—how did you cope?’

  ‘With difficulty. I kept it under control because I had no choice.’

  His eyes were troubled, but he looked at her unwaveringly. Though he had referred obliquely to what he called his condition, he had never before admitted to it so frankly.

  ‘Whatever is wrong with me,’ Jack said, pushing back his hair and squaring his shoulders, ‘I’ve decided it’s not going to rule my life. I must confront it, and the first step is this dinner which,’ he said with a small smile, ‘will also further your cause, I hope.’

  Celeste felt for his hand. ‘You are pretending it’s not an enormous challenge, but I can’t imagine...’

  ‘Then don’t. There’s no point in going into battle thinking you’ll die or that you’ll lose—even when the odds suggest that you might,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t want my aide-de-camp standing at my side like a frightened rabbit trying to decide which bullet to dodge, I want her watching my back. Do you understand?’

  Celeste swallowed as the implications of what he was proposing began to sink in. ‘Jack, I have never in my life attended such a grand function. I don’t even know how to curtsy properly. I am base-born, my father apparently was some sort of spy, I’m French, and I’m an artist. I have no connections, no breeding...’

  ‘Celeste, I don’t care a damn about your connections or your parentage or your blood line. You’re not a horse, dammit! I don’t care who your mother was, or your father, and I don’t give a damn about whether you were born on the right side of the blanket or not. You could be from Timbuktu for all I care.’

  ‘But those other people...’

  ‘Will see you for what you are, if you let them. A beautiful, clever, talented woman who deserves their respect and admiration for making her own way in life without compromise. I am willing to bet you’ll be the only one of them at the table, what’s more. What have I said to upset you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Celeste sniffed. ‘I don’t know where Timbuktu is.’

  ‘Africa.’ Jack wiped a tear from her lashes with his thumb. ‘Will you come with me?’

  She twined her fingers in his. ‘Yes. I won’t let you down, Jack.’

  ‘I know you won’t.’

  His kiss was the merest whisper, the lightest brush of his lips on hers, but it released a torrent of pent-up longing inside her. Celeste sighed. His fingers cupped her jaw. For an unbearable moment, she thought he would pull away. She knew it was what she ought to wish for, but she had only the will to wait, not turn away, because already her body was thrumming with anticipation. And then Jack sighed too.

  They kissed deeply, the kiss of a passion too long pent up. Their lips clung, their hands pulled their bodies tight together, as if space, any space between them was too much. Their unbridled kisses made her head spin with delight, made her realise how much restraint they had shown until now. She clutched at him, her desire rocketing, trading kisses with kisses, her breathing ragged, her hands wandering wildly over his body.

  ‘I want you,’ Jack said hoarsely, kissing her mouth, her throat, her mouth again. ‘I want you so much. I have never, ever wanted—not this much. Never this much.’ His kisses grew deeper. She tilted her head back to deepen them further. Her hands wandered over his back under his coat, to the tight clench of his buttocks. He groaned.

  They slid from the window seat on to the floor. ‘You are so lovely,’ Jack said, his hand tightening on her breast, drawing a deep moan from her. ‘So lovely.’ He sucked hard on her nipple through the layers of her gown, her undergarments. His hand cupped her other breast, his thumb stroking her other nipple.

  ‘Yes,’ Celeste said. ‘Yes.’ She stroked his back, his buttocks, she stroked the firm length of him through his breeches.

  ‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘Yes.’ He slid his hand under her gown, past the knot of her garter. He reached the slit in her pantaloons and slid his finger into her. Instantly, she tightened around him. He stroked her, his eyes fixed on hers as he did. She flattened her hand on his shaft. He kissed her. Slid his finger farther inside her. Then slowly, tantalisingly, drew it out.

  She undid enough of his buttons to slip her hand inside his breeches, and curled her fingers around the silky thickness of his shaft. He moaned. His breathing became ragged like hers. Slide and thrust, inside her. She was teetering on the edge already. Slide and thrust. She tightened in response. Jack was so hard in her hand. She tried to stroke him, but was constrained by the tightness of his breeches.

  ‘Wait. Just—just hold me,’ he said.

  Slide and stroke. Slide and stroke. His gaze holding hers. She had never been so tight. And then he kissed her, and the thrust of his tongue and the stroke of his fingers was too much. She cried out, jerking underneath him, yanked into a hard, fast climax, shuddering as it took her, wave after wave, clinging to Jack, as if he would save her, her hand clutching at his shoulder, her fingers curled around his shaft.

  Panting. And tears. Tears? He kissed her again, hard. She closed her eyes. Her lashes were wet. Tears? Her lips clung to his. She wriggled under him, trying to shift sufficiently to free him from his breeches. To give him what he had given her.

  Jack shifted, gently removing her hand. ‘Celeste, it’s not—it’s not that I don’t want you.’ His voice was harsh. The effort it took him to stop her was obvious. ‘It’s quite apparent that I do. More than I have ever—ever. But I can’t. No, not can’t. Dare not.’

  He sat up, adjusting himself, fastening his buttons, he
lping her to her feet, taking her hands, sitting down beside her on the window seat, stroking her hair back from her face. Then kissing her, so deeply and with such regret, she could not doubt the depth of his feeling. ‘Dare not?’

  Jack stared down at his hands. ‘I haven’t wanted to. Not since— Not for a long time. I told you that, I think. I thought that aspect of my life was over. And then I saw you.’ He kissed her again. ‘This, the way we are together, it is so much more than anything I’ve ever felt before. I’m afraid that I would want so much more from you than I’ve ever wanted from any woman before and I know...’ He kissed her again to stop her speaking. ‘I know you’ve made it very clear that your independence means everything to you, so I’m not presuming—’

  He broke off, staring out the window, his jaw working. ‘Even if you did,’ he said finally, turning back to her, his face stricken, ‘it wouldn’t be possible. What happened two years ago makes it impossible for me to even contemplate— I don’t deserve you, Celeste, and I’m afraid that if I gave in, if I allowed myself to—to make love to you, I would find it almost impossible to walk away, whether you wanted me or not. I have enough on my conscience without that.’

  His smile was a grimace. His eyes were darkly troubled. ‘There, I had not meant to say as much. You will think me presumptuous...’

  ‘Jack, I think—I don’t know what to think. It is the same for me—this, between us. You must know that. It frightens me. It makes me think—want—I don’t know what.’ She touched his cheek with her fingers. ‘You seem changed. You seem— I can see a little of the soldier in you, I think,’ she said with a lopsided smile, ‘ready to go into battle.’

  ‘It’s what I’m doing, I suppose.’

  ‘Won’t you tell me what happened, Jack?’

  He pulled his hands free, his expression set. ‘No,’ he said, ‘absolutely not. No one knows, and I intend to keep it that way.’

  She contemplated pressing him, but his tone made it clear it would be pointless, and she couldn’t bear to be at odds with him again after this. He had changed. He was still vulnerable, and he was still in torment but he was, as he said, fighting back, though the cause of his torment remained buried, a festering sore. She shuddered at this stark imagery. She was learning herself that such sores needed to excised.

  ‘I almost forgot.’ Jack pulled her locket from the velvet pouch. ‘Here. I had the jewellers clean it.’

  The stones sparkled. ‘I can’t believe I ever thought it mere trumpery.’ Jack fastened it around her neck. Her fingers closed over it. ‘I have missed it.’

  He kissed the nape of her neck. ‘Celeste?’

  ‘I do understand. I do.’ She got to her feet, blushing. ‘I don’t know what I think, but I understand. And I am—I am very honoured that you have confided in me this much. It must have taken a great deal— We neither of us are very good at it.’

  ‘We’re both of us getting better, though.’ Jack took her hand again, and kissed the palm. ‘Don’t mention anything about the dinner. I’m going to spring it on Charlie at breakfast so he’ll have no option but to agree. Do you have a gown? I never thought to ask.’

  Celeste smiled saucily. ‘I am a Frenchwoman. Of course I have a gown.’

  Jack laughed. ‘I missed you,’ he said, then turned away before she could answer. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast.’

  ‘And I missed you too,’ Celeste said as the door closed behind him.

  * * *

  ‘So the invite is from the Great Man himself? I thought Wellington was holed up in Paris.’ Charlie pushed his empty breakfast plate to one side. His brother, as Jack had anticipated, looked suitably awestruck.

  ‘He is only in England on a brief visit.’

  ‘Ah. Did you hear that, Eleanor?’ Charlie said, turning to his wife. ‘Wellington himself has invited Jack to a dinner.’

  ‘Jack and a partner,’ Eleanor said, pouring herself a cup of tea. ‘It is exceeding short notice to receive such an invitation.’

  She was no fool. He forgot that sometimes. Jack buttered some bread and took a contemplative bite. ‘The cards were issued a few weeks ago. My friend Finlay Urquhart has been holding on to this one for me,’ he said. One of the principles of deception, always stick to as near the truth as possible. ‘You remember Finlay, Charlie?’

  His brother laughed. ‘The Jock Upstart, isn’t that what Wellington calls him? Indeed, I recall...’

  ‘So who do you intend to take to this dinner with you?’ Eleanor persisted.

  ‘I rather thought I’d take Mademoiselle Marmion.’

  Eleanor’s breakfast cup clattered into her saucer. ‘A painter. A French painter, moreover. To dinner with Wellington! Jack, you cannot possibly... Oh. Good morning, Mademoiselle. I trust you slept—There is no coffee. They have forgotten to bring— I will just ring the bell.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Jack got to his feet, tugging the cord at the fireplace before holding Celeste’s chair out for her. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, resuming his seat opposite her, ‘we were just talking about you.’

  ‘Jack, you cannot— There must be someone more—’

  ‘Eleanor.’ It was the voice he used to cut through the excuses of a trooper who had failed to carry out his orders to the letter. Shouting, Jack had learned to appreciate, was not nearly so effective as this quiet, utterly implacable tone. Eleanor’s jaw dropped. Jack bit back the urge to laugh. ‘I have received a very flattering invitation to a dinner which the Duke of Wellington is hosting,’ he said, turning to Celeste. ‘I would be honoured if you would accompany me.’

  Her eyes widened not from wonder, but from the effort she was making not to laugh. ‘Moi?’ She turned to Eleanor, to Charlie, and then back to him with a very creditable attempt at surprised delight. He hadn’t briefed her, and he hadn’t needed to. Jack bit back his own smile. ‘To dinner with the great Duke of Wellington. Moi? It is an honour that I surely do not deserve.’

  ‘Actually—’ Charlie surprised them all by intervening ‘—I think it’s a capital idea,’ he said, casting his wife an apologetic look. ‘We all know that the Duke has an eye for the ladies, and Mademoiselle, here, is an exceptionally beautiful gal. Come now, Eleanor, you cannot deny it.’

  Jack mentally cursed his brother’s ineptness. To ask one woman to praise another’s looks was to dice with disaster at the best of times. To ask one’s wife to do so was to ensure that one slept alone for at least the next week. ‘The Duke of Wellington is still, as far as I am aware, infatuated with Lady Wedderburn-Webster.’

  Eleanor’s eyes widened at the mention of the notorious and by all accounts, fatally attractive lady. ‘Is it true, Jack, that the child she bore is his? I believe that she was actually back in the ballroom only days after the birth. I was confined for six weeks after Robert, and a month after Donal.’

  ‘As to that, I’m afraid I have no idea.’

  ‘They say that she has not a single thought worth uttering in that flighty head of hers,’ Lady Eleanor said. ‘One would have thought that a man of Wellington’s calibre would have chosen a more fitting and intelligent...’ She stuttered to a halt, flushing, seeming to recall only at the last minute that she was talking about Wellington’s mistress, and not his wife.

  ‘Mademoiselle Marmion, you may recall, lives in Paris,’ Jack said, bringing the conversation back around to the salient point. ‘I thought Wellington would appreciate discussing his adopted city with one of its natives.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ Charlie said, rubbing his hands together. ‘The point is, my dear Eleanor, Jack must go to this dinner. There is no doubt that Wellington will be a man of huge influence when he returns to politics, as he surely must. And Jack, you know, must look to his future. He cannot afford to be turning such an invitation down, and it is too short notice to invite another lady to accompany him. Mademoiselle Marmion offers the perfect s
olution to the problem. It is settled then.’

  Charlie beamed. Eleanor smiled frigidly. Celeste looked down at her plate of bread and butter, biting her lip. Mission accomplished! Picking up his fork, Jack cut into an egg and took a bite. It was cold, but surprisingly good. He cut another piece.

  Celeste made an excellent accomplice. He’d spent much of the night imagining how it would have been if he had not somehow plucked the willpower to stop yesterday. He almost wished he hadn’t been so strong-minded. When he woke up, his morning swim had been a necessity for a very different reason than on any other day. Jack set down his fork. It hadn’t been that dream. He had not had that dream for—he frowned—more than a week?

  ‘Is something wrong, Jack?’

  He turned to Eleanor, who had posed the question. ‘Not at all. I was merely contemplating having another egg,’ he said.

  ‘Then let me fetch it for you,’ she said.

  She got hurriedly to her feet to do so, rather than summon a servant or allow him to help himself, obviously keen to encourage his returning appetite. Her concern touched him. It struck him that before he went to London, it would merely have irked him. He wondered guiltily how many other such small acts of kindness he’d misconstrued. ‘Thank you,’ he said with a smile as she handed him the plate.

  Eleanor blushed. ‘You are most welcome, Jack,’ she said.

  He made a point of taking a bite of egg and nodding his appreciation. ‘By the way, I brought Robert back a present from London.’

  ‘A present? That is exceedingly thoughtful of you. May I ask what it is?’

  Eleanor’s face lit up, and Jack felt another twinge of guilt. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled at him like that. ‘It’s a box of soldiers,’ he said. ‘Actually, rather a large box. Models of the armies who fought at Waterloo. I thought he could invite his little friend from the village round later, and I’d set it out for him, just as it was. Explain how the battle unfolded, that sort of thing.’